The End of Red John
by Eden Ann Stark
Summary: The title pretty much says it all. I had to write my own Red John story.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Set in the future; I'm thinking like 3 – 5 years. I didn't want to go into a lot of detail about Red John's identity, mostly because I have no idea what "He is man/mar" is supposed to mean, and to be honest I don't know a lot about his M.O. aside from the cutting up of his victims and the smiley. I hope that doesn't bother anyone. Anyways, let me know if you find any mistakes.  


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The End of Red John

The CBI was investigating yet another Red John case; the third one since Lisbon had told Jane that the next time would be the last time. It had been five days since the bodies of two sisters were found, and the case was taking its toll on everyone, but they were working fervently because this time _felt _different. It felt as though this case was going to be Red John's last, and the team could almost see the light at the end of the tunnel.

"Have you seen Jane?" Lisbon asked Van Pelt; it'd been nearly an hour since she came in, and she had yet to see the consultant. "Or heard from him?"

"No, I haven't," she answered, worry evident on her face.

Lisbon didn't say anything more, and pulled out her cell phone to call him again. He didn't answer, just like the previous times; it made her nervous. It wasn't like him. She sat for moment, deciding what to do, before grabbing her keys and leaving the offices. She was concerned about him, so she drove with the lights and sirens on. She probably should have brought someone else 3along, but Cho and Rigsby were out following a lead, and Van Pelt was compiling all their information on Red John and his victims to look for similarities or a pattern they might have missed. She didn't want to hinder their investigation when this situation was probably nothing. Nevertheless, when she got there, she entered the house with her gun drawn. Lisbon checked the first floor before heading upstairs. She cleared the preceding rooms, and walked down the hall to the last room. The senior agent threw the door open, only to find a distraught Jane staring a Red John's trademark with a revolver in his hand.

"Jane!" she called out, but he didn't answer, or give indication of hearing her. "Jane!"

She holstered her weapon, and ran over to him. She pried the gun from his hand, her eyes frantically searching him to find what was wrong. She'd never seen him like this; she didn't know what to do.

"Jane, are you alright?" Lisbon asked, but he still didn't respond, so she took a hold of face, and turned him towards her. "Are you okay?"

"It didn't help. I thought it would make everything better, but it didn't help at all," he told her, looking as if he was about to break down.

Her eyes widened as she realized what he meant, "You killed him, didn't you?"

He didn't say anything, but the answer to her question was in his eyes. She stood, frozen, unsure of what to do. She'd told Jane a long time ago that if harmed Red John, she'd arrest him, but that was easier said than done. She had developed feelings for the man, against her will, and in spite of all the preventive measures she'd taken. Lisbon was no longer capable of objectively arresting and subsequently imprisoning Patrick Jane. The harried woman closed her eyes, and took a deep breath to prepare herself for what she was about to do.

"Jane, are you listening? This is important," his empty eyes met hers again, and she continued. "Tell me what happened."

He seemed hesitant to do that, but after a moment he relayed the information. He told her how he figured out Red John was a Sacramento Police Department ME who used to be a prison doctor, and about how he had kept copies of crime scene photos from his victims. Jane then let her know that he did what he'd told her he would do; he cut open his adversary, and watched him die. Lisbon tried to compose herself, and asked him where the knife was.

"In my car."

"Did you wear gloves?" she asked, biting a lip; after his negative response, she went on. "Did you touch anything? Leave behind any DNA?"

"I don't think so; he didn't really put up a fight. I wasn't injured," he replied, a faintly puzzled expression making its way onto his blank face. "Aren't you going to arrest me?"

"No, I'm not. Is this registered to you?" she deflected, and held up the six-shooter she had taken from him.

"Yes. Why not?" he replied, voice a bit less emotionless.

She didn't answer his question, and put the gun back into the box he pointed at. She gave him a once over, looking for blood. There wasn't any on his person, so she picked his jacket up off the floor. After making sure it was clean she handed it to him.

Her hands were slightly shaking, and she ran a hand through her hair to calm down, "Alright, lets go."

Jane didn't move; he was staring at the red smiley again, "Why?"

"I – Jane, you should have told me who Red John was, so we could bring him in. You made a mistake, but you don't deserve to spend the rest of your life in prison . . . You deserve a second chance," she said. "And I know you're not going to do it again."

"Do you?"

"Yes, Jane, I do. Now this time you're going to do as I say. You're going to come with me, and you're going to lie," she told him forcefully. "Then you can spend the rest of your life repenting by helping us catch murderers."

"I'm not sorry Red John is dead, Lisbon."

She sighed; she knew that was more than she could hope for, "Then you spend your life repaying me. Lets go, and now would be a great time to turn on your acting skills."

The two left his house, and Lisbon took the murder weapon from his car. On the way to a bar near the CBI headquarters, she dumped it in a river. She knew the man who owned the bar; she'd saved his life a few years ago, and despite her protests, he'd always insisted that he would return the favor. She was about to take him up on that offer. The two walked into the bar, and he pleasantly greeted her.

"Agent Lisbon, nice to see you again!"

"Dave, I need to talk to you. Privately."

He seemed a little surprised at her request, but he led them back to his office.

"I need a favor," she said once the door was closed.

"It's about time you decided to see it my way," Dave told her, smiling softly.

"We need an alibi for last night between nine and eleven. This is big; I understand if you say no."

"Don't be ridiculous. I owe my life to you, Teresa. I'll do it, but I don't need to know why. You're a good cop; I trust you."

"The FBI will be the ones asking," she warned.

"Don't worry, I'll tell them what they need to know, and I'll have some of the patrons say the same. But after this we're even, no more free drinks," he teased.

The three rose from the their chairs, and Lisbon hugged him, "Thank you, Dave."

He nodded, and the CBI agent and ex-psychic left. They headed back to headquarters; Jane told his colleagues that he was hung over, which they went along with even though they didn't completely believe it. They were only there for a few hours when it must have become known that Red John was dead because four FBI agents came striding through the offices, Minelli accompanying them.

The rest of the day, and most of the week, was spent being grilled by the FBI as they waited for their forensics team to examine Red John's house along with the homes of the CBI's best unit. The team didn't know anything, however. Their leader was lying, and Jane, for once, was following her orders. The FBI agents hit a wall; they didn't have any evidence against any of them, and they were forced to drop it. They weren't happy about the case going cold, but Red John was a sick serial killer, they'd be able to let it go. His death wasn't going to keep any of them up at night.

It was Saturday when they finally left, and the team felt drained and disjointed. It would be quite a while before everything was normal again. Lisbon came back to her team's empty office area after an unofficial, and vague, warning from Minelli, and walked over to the brown leather couch that Jane was occupying.

"You ready?"

"Ready for what?" he asked in response, keeping his eyes closed.

"There's something we have to do. I'll be waiting in the car," she replied, and left.

He joined her a few minutes later, having dropped his façade for his co-workers and the FBI, his voice and expression were desolate, "Where are we going?"

She didn't reply, but he got his answer when she started driving down a familiar path. There were going to his house. He didn't ask any more questions, and they were there in about fifteen minutes. They got out, and he walked up to his house while she opened the passenger door on her side, pulling out a bucket of supplies and a can of paint.

"Lisbon . . ." he trailed off, trying to decide between telling her no or yes.

"You have to do this, Jane," she informed him as she walked around him, and into the house. "Now c'mon."

He followed her, and they walked upstairs to the room at the end of the hall. She sat the can of paint down, and emptied the bucket before going to fill it with water. She came back, put some soap in the water, and moved the mattress all while Jane stood there still unsure and reluctant. Lisbon pointed to the smiley, ushering him. He took his jacket off, rolled up his sleeves, and walked to the face that had been the bane of his existence since his wife and daughter were murdered.

"I . . . I thought that when I killed him, the guilt and pain would just be gone, or at the least lessened, but nothing happened, Lisbon," he said, turning to met her eyes. "I feel the same."

"Getting over the loss of someone you love is never that easy. It's you have to learn to accept, so you can go on with your life."

"I don't know if I can; their deaths were my fault," he said, looking as if he was on the edge of a breakdown.

She walked over to him, and placed a hand on his arm, "Jane, it wasn't your fault. Red John murdered your family, not you."

"But – "

"No. It doesn't matter what you said or did, he's the one that took them away. You _can_ accept your losses, and this is how you start," she told him softly, pointing to the red smiley. "They would want you to, Jane."

He picked up a sponge, dipped it in the bucket, and started wiping away Red John's mark. Lisbon joined him; the two spent a long time erasing the face, and then painting over the area. The mentalist stared at the now clean, white wall, and felt as though a little bit of the weight of his family's death had been lifted from his shoulders.

A ghost of his normal smile made its way onto his face, and he turned to face Lisbon, "I feel a bit better."

She reciprocated his grin, "Well, you're not right about everything, Jane. I know things too. It's still light out, somewhat; there's something else I think you should do."

"Really?"

"If you're up to it," Lisbon replied, her tone was lightly joking, but she was completely serious.

He gave a barely discernable nod, and they packed up the supplies, carrying them down the SUV. They left his house, heading towards a nearby flower shop. Jane seemed to understand where this was going, and went into the shop. He came out a few moments later with two bouquets of a dozen white roses. She drove to a cemetery about ten miles outside the Sacramento city limits. She pulled in, driving on the winding, narrow road that went through it, only stopping when Jane indicated to do so.

"I'll wait for you here."

He got out of the car, and walked to two tombstones placed closely together about twenty-five feet away from the SUV. He placed a bouquet on each grave; he stood for a moment before sitting down in the grass. From what Lisbon could see, he appeared to be talking to his family, and she looked away. It was a private moment.

She wasn't sure exactly how long they were there, but the sun was setting when Jane got back into the car. He put his seatbelt on, and let out a heavy sigh.

"Are you alright?" she asked, worried that she had pushed him.

"I'm fine," he responded. "I think you two would have gotten along; she would have brought out your softer side, Lisbon."

She wasn't sure what to say to that, so she kept quiet, but a small smile graced her face.

"I don't have a purpose now," he said, glancing out his window.

"Hey," she started. "You do have a purpose: working with us to catch murderers. What you do keeps those bastards from killing other people's families. You save people everyday, Jane."

"Thanks, Lisbon," he replied, smiling.

She then started the SUV, intending to take him back to the CBI to get his car, and she couldn't help but feel a little relieved. She had been a little anxious about her decision to go against her deeply ingrained law enforcement morals. She had made the right choice in saving Jane, and she would continue to do whatever it took to keep on saving him.

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Thoughts?


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I've thought about continuing, in a non-linear manner, this story through a series of one-shots. I'm not committing to anything, but I have some ideas for stories revolving around the premise that Jane killed Red John, so it'll just turn into whatever it turns into. Let me know if you find any mistakes.

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Nightmares

Teresa Lisbon was abruptly roused from a rather deep sleep by the thrashing and occasional groaning of her partner. She rubbed her eyes to wake herself up a bit, and turned to face him. He was covered in a light sheen of sweat, brow furrowed; he was having another nightmare.

"Patrick," she said softly, shaking his shoulder; they didn't use each other's first names often, and it was only in private.

He didn't stir, as usual, she only ever managed to wake him after the dream had run its course. He could not, apparently, allow himself any peace of mind, even in sleep, and she couldn't do a thing about it. She really despised that.

"Patrick," she tried again, futilely, but she knew what this particular dream was about, and she didn't want it to continue, so she was always hoping for a different outcome every time she attempted to wake him.

The nightmares had started a little while ago, when Jane had realized that no matter what type of person you killed, it stayed with you; it took apart of you. It wasn't something that could merely be written off or forgotten. Lisbon did her best to help him, she'd had killed before after all, but her assistance could only go so far. He had to learn how to live with it himself.

The mentalist had stopped moving, and the only noise now was his heavy breathing; the nightmare was ending. His eyes snapped open; his entire body tensed before he let out a sigh and relaxed slightly.

"Are you okay?" she asked gently.

"I'm fine."

"Jane . . . "

The bedroom was silent for a few moments as she waited for him to start.

"I –," he faltered and paused before continuing. "I just don't understand. He deserved to die; I'm not sorry I did it, so why do I keep seeing it?"

"There's a part of you that does feel guilty, the part that knows killing is wrong . . . it's what makes you a good man."

"It doesn't make me feel like a good man," he told her, grinning wryly.

She brushed her hand against his temple before running her fingers through his hair in an effort to comfort him, "I know. It'll get better though, eventually."

"Right," he agreed, but it seemed as though he didn't completely believe her.

"I mean it; the time will come when you don't have any nightmares. You'll just sleep through the night. I promise."

"I'm not so sure about that," he replied, and the somewhat forlorn and lost look in his eyes was replaced with a mischievous one.

"Why not?" she inquired warily, noticing the subject change, but deciding against mentioning it; if he didn't want to keep talking about it, she wasn't going to force him.

"I don't think I'll ever sleep through the night because you, my dear, snore."

"What? I do not," Lisbon immediately denied.

"Yes, you do. It's a soft snore, and a little bit cute," he informed her, smiling widely. "But it's annoying nonetheless."

"That's exactly how I feel about you: cute, but annoying," she retorted.

He laughed as he pulled her close, "I happen to know that you find me handsome and sexy," his voice dropping an octave as said the last few words.

"Is that so?" she responded, trying to appear serious despite her blush.

"Yes," he answered adamantly.

As if to prove his point he leaned in and kissed her, and didn't pull away until a quiet moan escaped her lips. When she opened her eyes, Jane had his 'I love being right' smirk in place. The CBI agent fixed him with a glare, but she was still flushed and out of breath; it failed miserably at chastising him. He lightly brushed his lips against hers again, and she unsuccessfully attempted to appear to be irritated with him. She gave up the pretense, and kissed him properly, knowing that at some point their late-night rendezvous would become more about their mutual attraction and love than distracting Patrick Jane from his nightmares.

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Thoughts?


End file.
